


Traction

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Classic Cars, Community: kink_bingo, Danger, Debauched Driving, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-28
Updated: 2011-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been said that if a man can drive safely while kissing, he's not giving the kiss the attention it deserves. Fortunately for Erik and Charles, safety was never an option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traction

When Erik is absent from Charles' study at their usual meeting time, Charles can't fault him. Not really. Not even with the chess game readied and two servings of scotch poured and placed at hand by their respective chairs: what goes on between them is nothing so formal as to require expectation. It's simply something they've found themselves in. A routine.

But that doesn't mean Charles doesn't notice when it's broken.

He waits up a while, almost til midnight, reading rather more than he means, and draining his glass (and Erik's, and a third to ease his nerves) before he sets out in search of him. And while search is an operative word -- a matter of convenience, for Charles senses that Erik is in the garage, and has been for some time -- he feigns surprise, as if he's stumbled into the place by chance.

Oh. Only Erik's nowhere to be seen. "Hello?" Charles ventures, glancing down the line of parked vehicles. Beneath the low hum of the overhead lights, he can hear the scratch of metal on metal. "Is everything all right?"

"Mm?" comes Erik's muffled response. Then he wheels out from beneath the Le Mans Roadster. There's a smudge of grease on his cheek that Charles would very much like to wipe away, but then he thinks better of it.

And then: to hell with better. He kneels down beside Erik and rubs his thumb over the offending spot. Erik catches his hand, pressing his lips to the inside of Charles' wrist.

Charles puffs out a laugh. "Really, Erik. What's got into you?"

"I noticed some corrosion in the wheel well," Erik explains. "A few more years and it'd eat all the way through."

"But?"

"I fixed it. Steel in such quantities is easy to manipulate."

"My, but you _are_ a wonder," Charles chides. He stands, then offers a hand to help Erik up. Only belatedly does he realize that Erik's own hands are quite clean. He continues, "But you really needn't go to the trouble. These things just sit parked here. I rarely bother to come in, and half the time I don't even remember what I have."

"They're all yours, then?"

"And Raven's. But yes. Mostly by way of my step-father..."

Erik nods. "For all his wrongs, he had an eye for craftsmanship."

"No, only consumption," says Charles. He pats the bonnet of the Jaguar. "Although I always rather liked this one. And before you ask, I only ever got it up to 105, though they say these XK120s can do at least twenty miles an hour above that."

"Now you're just tempting me."

Charles smiles, meeting Erik's eye. There's a warmth in his belly that has nothing to do with the scotch he'd had. "I'm sure I've no idea what you mean," he purrs. And, a little regretfully: "Besides, the keys are all squirreled away back in the house."

The Jaguar's engine roars to life.

"Oh. There isn't even supposed to be any petrol in the tank," Charles protests.

Without comment, Erik slides into the driver's seat. He strokes the steering wheel gently. Appreciatively.

Charles wrenches back a groan. "At least let me get my jacket."

The garage door slides back on its rollers -- also by Erik's magic touch, no doubt.

Well, damn. What can one do?

Charles hops into the passenger seat, scarcely getting the door shut before Erik has the car in gear and accelerating outside and down the driveway. The front gate already sits open, obliging. Once they're through, they take the first turn slowly, almost with reverence, and all the ones that follow increasingly fast. All it would take is a well-spread swatch of wet leaves for them to go over a rail.

At least Erik is handy behind the wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road, and deceptively, he holds out the tips of three fingers to steer -- the rest of his control comes from within him. Even after the weeks they spent crossing the country, Charles hadn't seen him truly _drive_ \-- or not with any interest, for the Packard they'd borrowed from the CIA was slow and overly stiff. Now, Charles can glean the peaks of Erik's pleasure without even breaching his surface thoughts.

A pity then that it isn't a nicer night. Heavy rains rolled over the mansion for most of the afternoon and evening, and while the storm did eventually pass, the sky is still overcast, and only the intermittent streetlights draw the road from gloom into glare.

After a while, Charles allows himself to settle a bit in his seat, for once content to let Erik plan their way. The cool, damp autumn air flows through the Jaguar's open top, mussing his hair and catching at his open collar. It's pleasant. And likewise nice to reminisce: he knows these roads. He traversed them thousands of times in his youth. This one, winding, tree-lined, will take them over the border--

Oh. "Erik? D'you realize we just passed into Connecticut?"

Erik lets out an uninterested grunt and up-shifts. "What's the matter, Charles? Not enjoying the ride?"

"Very much, actually," Charles agrees before he can stop himself.

Erik grins. "Good," he says, "because it's about to get better." His eyes flick up to the rear-view mirror.

Charles takes the hint. Some distance behind them, but growing closer all the time, a squad car flickers red and blue in the darkness. Several minutes pass before he hears the siren.

"Well?" Erik pans.

"You don't actually mean for me-- Erik. Please. I can't."

"Can't, or won't?"

Charles sighs. "This really isn't the time to get into a moral debate. Suffice to say that meddling with authority figures is not something I _do_."

"I don't have an American driver's licence, and the car is registered in your name."

Well, that's-- Erik has a point.

Charles raises a hand to his temple and fills the hearts of the two trailing officers with the unrelenting desire go back to the station and fill out paperwork. Immediately, the car slows. Then it turns around.

And Charles knows he could stop this any time he wants. He could make Erik give the car over to him before he gets them both killed, or simply convince Erik to take them home. But a small, irrational part of him needs to know how far it can possibly go.

Then Erik reaches over, nests his fingers at the back of Charles' head, and pulls him forward for a kiss. It's rough and sloppy and there are far too many teeth involved, but it sends a bolt of arousal straight to Charles' cock.

"Erik! The road!" Charles manages after they part. They're both breathing heavily, and Erik's gaze has taken on a pleased, predatory tint. But before he can react, they've left the pavement entirely, and the car proceeds to cruise into a low patch of scrub brush.

The engine shuts off.

"Just lovely," Charles mumbles. "Truly superb."

Erik's hand moves from the gearshift to Charles' thigh. "Quite," he says, leaning in to kiss Charles again.

Forty minutes later, they stand together on the edge of the roadside, reassembling their clothes. Then Erik raises the Jaguar from the weeds, setting it back to the road with a squish. It isn't even a strain for him.

Idly, Charles wonders whether Erik would find the T-Bird quite so easy.


End file.
